Winter's Waiting
by SakiSaki
Summary: Skittery's having a bad day. Complete!
1. Ain't It a Fine Life

_Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed herein are those of the individual speakers read: Skittery, and on a bad day to boot, and do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of the author read: me. Furthermore, I don't own Newsies or the characters with names – some guy named Walt does.

* * *

_

Some days, Skittery woke up angry.

Most days, Skittery was a decent seller, a better listener than a speaker, and a friend to most. Most days, he joked around with Specs and Dutchy, played a few hands with Racetrack, and acted the big brother to the likes of Snipeshooter and Tumbler. Most days, in comparison to how it could have been, it was a fine life.

But every so often, on days like these, that side of Skittery sank deep within himself. The part of him that was worth knowing became lost and murky, and was replaced with something close to disgust. Disgust for himself, for the others, for his work and his surroundings. It was enough to make him sick.

Kloppman was the start of his troubles. He'd jar Skittery out of sleep with a smack and a holler, disorienting him before Skittery could even respond. Annoyed, and because it was easy, Skittery would unleash it elsewhere, and smack Racetrack when he was blindly stumbling around for a towel. Later, Racetrack would eagerly take the opportunity to smack Skittery back extra hard for being the voice of dissent, much to the approval of the others. And all because of that damned Kloppman.

This day began in the same fashion. He rolled out of bed and went to the toilet, and before even leaving the stall, he knew: it was to be that kind of day. He let out a long sigh, ran a hand through his unruly mop of hair and opened the door.

"Hey, why the long face, Skitts?" He gritted his teeth and turned around. That lop-sided grin and grating voice could only belong to one person.

"I'm not in the mood, Crutchy," was all he could muster, moving past the cripple and bending over the sink. He hoped that if he washed his face long enough Crutchy would catch on. Unfortunately this was not the case, and Crutchy's high-pitched talking continued.

"Whaddya mean, 'Not in the mood'? All's I asked is why you're feelin' down… I mean the day hasn't even started yet, how can ya already be so glum?"

Skittery grimaced. Pulling his head sharply upwards and spraying the mirror with water, he spat, "Why dontcha go bug someone else, alright? Ya voice is drivin' me crazy."

Crutchy frowned, but complied. In a few moments he was kidding around with Jack and the situation seemed to be forgotten. Skittery still felt a pang of guilt, but suppressed it and went to bathe. His head was itching.

After a quick scrub in bitingly cold water, Skittery got dressed, his salmon long johns sticking to his body. He cringed at the texture, heavy and damp from a lack of thorough washing. He pulled up his slacks, the material thinning and threatening to tear around the knees, and attached his suspenders, muttering a cussword for each movement.

"The old pink shirt again, eh, Skitts?" Kid Blink laughed, slapping him on the back as he walked by.

Blink smiled way too much. God was it irritating. He smiled at Jack's urging messages; he smiled at Racetrack's jokes… he'd smiled buying papes from Weasel for God's sake! It was _just too much._ Skittery grunted in reply, his frown deepening, but Blink didn't notice because he had gotten into a towel fight with Mush.

Mush was nice. He was so nice, in fact, that it was impossible to dislike him – which was precisely what Skittery couldn't stand about him. And when he and Blink were together… Christ, it was high time the two solidified their relationship, so maybe Snitch and Itey could get beds of their own.

Skittery glanced down at his shirt in apprehension and grabbed his cap from the bedpost, wearing it like some sort of ridiculing crown. Yanking on his boots and giving his head a final scratch, he left the lodging house sullenly behind the others.

The sun was rising and already making the cobblestones hot beneath his feet. They stopped for bread and coffee, removing their caps and smiling up at the nuns. Skittery was appreciative of their generosity – he wasn't dumb enough to turn down a free handout, even if he resented needing it – but something about nuns made him feel guilty, like they were taking advantage of their charity. He hadn't even been to church since his father's funeral… God, how long had it been?

Skittery walked through the mob of boys rather than with them. He had brought his walking stick to have something to grasp and relieve the tension knotting in his hands. Eager yells from the newsboys and the sounds of horse-drawn carriages filled the September air. A few friendly slaps on the back went unnoticed and were not reciprocated. What were they so damned excited about anyway?

"Hey, Skittery," Dutchy said, materializing beside him. He rustled around in his pocket and handed him some change. "Here's the two bits I owe ya from last Tuesday. Thanks again for spottin' me that time." With a smile he ran ahead, picking up Tumbler and carrying the little one on his shoulders.

Because Dutchy always repaid Skittery within a week when he borrowed money, he was one of the few guys that Skittery had no problems with even when he was in a bad mood. He was kind of a goofball, but in a good way, and made Skittery laugh frequently. He didn't often sell with Dutchy because their methods differed, but aside from that he had nothing to complain about regarding his blonde and bespectacled friend.

The only person he could stand to sell papes with was Specs. Specs was smart, and if there was one thing Skittery could respect, it was brains. He was also a great seller. On more than one occasion, when Specs was making more money, he'd treated Skittery to lunch for no ulterior motives that he could see – simply because they were friends, and that's what friends do for each other. But there was something more to Specs that Skittery quietly admired, and he couldn't quite put a word to it. It was just a feeling he got whenever he looked at him.

But on days like this, even Specs couldn't lighten his spirits, so when he came bounding up to Skittery as they headed to buy their papes, Skittery just shook his head slowly in want of a greeting. Specs knitted his brows in concern and searched his friend's face, as if the cause of his problems was written on his forehead. After a moment he nodded knowingly, gave him a thump on the shoulder and went to join Dutchy, glancing back a few times to be sure. That was Specs, all right; a word didn't need to be exchanged for him to understand. Skittery's pace faltered a little as he watched his comrade go. Something hurt, but it was ignored.

The group reached the distribution center and formed a line. It had been back to business as usual once the strike had ended last month. One by one the newsies chatted up the new employee, cracking jokes and slapping down change. Skittery leaned against his walking stick in boredom. The new guy was nice and an honest worker and all, but he admittedly missed having Weasel around.

Weasel was one of the few people he should have hated, but didn't. The man was overweight, ugly, and altogether unpleasant. He didn't make much money and was a whipping boy for the World, desperately grasping at what little power he had over the newsboys. There was nothing Skittery could wish against Weasel that wasn't already there, so he had always settled with indifference and some mocking resentment towards him as he bought his papes. Now he was gone and had taken that bit of amusement with him.

"Fifty papes," Skittery said dully.

Skittery hated the people in the papers. He hated the people who got killed because they were weak. He hated the people who did the killing for playing God. He hated the politicians and big shots for being liars and, worst of all, rich. He hated the people who had good news bestowed upon them, because Skittery had no good news.

The headline was terrible. _Alfred Dreyfus Pardoned from Devil's Island Prison._ Who the hell wrote that and thought it would sell? None of the newsies had any idea who Alfred Dreyfus was or why this was significant. Skittery thought he might have heard the name years ago in an equally uninteresting headline. Dutchy attempted to read the article aloud to the group so they could expand upon this, but quickly abandoned that tactic when most got too bored to listen. There was a general consensus that the headline would have to be fabricated in the hopes of making a cent.

"Murderers break outta prison!" yelled Specs. "Believed to be residin' in Midtown!"

"Hey, there's a maniac on the loose," Race announced to a couple. "Details inside dis issue – a penny to save ya life."

"Extry, extry! People's getting possessed by devils on Long Island!" Boots said with a shout and a smile. Snipeshooter sold beside him, holding back a laugh and continuing the thought.

"Learn how you can protect ya'selves from dis horrible fate!"

Skittery rolled his eyes, where on a typical day he would have congratulated the boys on their creativity. He scratched his head and smoothed his hair, making his way through the streets. He wasn't sure where to go, as Specs and Dutchy were probably headed to his usual selling spot. He was sick of the same old places anyway.

Walking in a funk and grumbling inwardly for what seemed like ages, he eventually found himself by the harbor. Shirtless men were tying up boats, diving in and climbing out of the water. Skittery wrinkled his nose; it smelled like Brooklyn.

Ugh. Brooklyn. Brooklyn always stank heavily of fish. The place was crawling with overly proud Irishmen trying to show how tough they were, breaking bottles with slingshots and swimming in dirty, seaweed-infested water. Yeah, that sure was intimidating. And Spot, don't get him started on Spot. Self-proclaimed King of Fish Central - what an achievement. Skittery had licked punks twice his size for smirks half as cocky. One of these days he'd take that key around his neck and choke him until he coughed up marbles…

Skittery realized he had been standing there, staring at the water vacantly for a solid few minutes. He scratched the back of his head and surveyed the area for possible buyers. After all, the newsies had a motto: _Kill the competition, sell the next edition. _Even on his worst days, Skittery could find no fault in that logic. If there were two things he hated, it was a) losing money, and b) losing, period.

Two men in suits, smoking cigars beside a carriage nearby. Three young men on bicycles, making their way to work. A woman with a lacy dress, walking past fishermen who excitedly tipped their hats. He was sure of it: these were the buyers.

"Extry, extry!" he yelled halfheartedly. "Famed outlaw flees from prison! Crime rate soars!" Sure enough, they came over one by one and placed pennies in his palm. Skittery decided it was best to move along before they realized the truth behind the headline, and casually went in a different direction.

He took a turn down an alleyway. Skittery hated confined spaces like this; they always made him nervous. The sun never shone here. Stepping over crates and shattered glass, boot-deep in crumpled papers, he concentrated on the light of the bustling street ahead. In the distance he could see a young girl, maybe five years old, skipping along beside her father. She looked happy and safe. Skittery smiled to himself; there was nothing in this world more immaculate than a little girl. Even thinking about them eased his mind.

Suddenly an arm jutted out of a trash heap and grabbed him by the ankle, yanking him roughly.

"Jesus!" was all that escaped his throat as he fell down sideways, banging his elbow on the brick wall. He cursed in pain and scrambled to sit up, but the hand on his ankle held tight. His panicked thoughts managed to notice that the left knee of his pants was officially torn now. He squinted, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

A toothless grin stared back.

* * *

_Author's Note: Just to clarify, I know Skittery isn't always in a bad mood, and isn't always "Glum 'n dumb" like some authors portray him. I know this, and I think he's a fascinating character in need of further development. But the fact remains that he was pissy for some of the movie and therefore he must be pissy now and then, so I chose to write about him in that frame of mind. Besides, I find bad days much more interesting than good days (though not so much on the experiencing end of it…)._

_Also, the headline about Alfred Dreyfus is an actual even that happened in September of 1899. You can look it up on Wikipedia if you're interested._

_One last thing: I've seen some stories write his nickname as "Skits" and others that write it as "Skitts." I chose the two T's, because I don't think there's a right or wrong with that one. R&R, if you please!_


	2. For a Buck I Might

Skittery was sure his sight was playing tricks on him, because all he could see of his attacker was a pair of bloodshot eyes and a few yellow teeth gleaming at him. Slowly, the outline of a man emerged from the trash pile.

"Wha—" Skittery's heart was pounding so hard it was making speech difficult. "What the hell—?"

A strangled laugh cut him off abruptly. The man tugged his leg and dragged Skittery closer to him. He could see now that the man was blending into the surroundings because his skin was blackened with soot and filth. Skittery reached for his walking stick a few feet away.

"S-so you're a bum," he said, in hopes that talking would distract the vagrant from noticing. His voice came out a little higher than he would have liked. "Just a bum." His fingers had just wrapped around the stick when the man smacked it back down roughly.

"I'm the Newspaper Man!" he shrieked in his face, breath heavy with drink. Thick saliva gathered between his lips as he spoke. "The Newspaper Man!" Skittery's grip tightened around his walking stick. He grimaced with fear, noticing that the bum's trash heap was indeed made of newspapers. "Gimme yer newspapers, boy!"

Skittery smiled weakly and tensed his arm. "F-for a buck, I might—"

He cracked his stick across the Newspaper Man's shoulder with all the force he could summon. There was a sickening crunch and a yelp of pain. He clambered to his feet and ran across the alleyway as fast as his legs could carry him, never pausing to look back.

When the light of day hit his eyes once more, he slowed his pace slightly and concentrated on getting his heart to quiet down. He coughed and wiped his face with his sleeve. The noise of the streets and the heat of the sun never seemed more inviting. He felt a little inspired.

"Dis just in!" he yelled, slightly louder than necessary. "Madman busts outta jail and takes refuge in local alleyways!"

Several people rushed over and bought papers. Taking what had just happened and spinning it into something positive felt good – almost as good as the change jingling in his pocket. His stomach rumbled and he decided to head over to Tibby's for lunch, already sick of this side of town and just hoping to walk off the whole experience.

As he traveled, the flap from his torn pants fluttered against his shin. The material stretched and the hole was already increasing in size. He sighed, realizing he'd have to somehow get a new pair of slacks sooner than he wanted. His newly exposed knee was cut up and bloody, causing his leg to ache every other step. Between that and the walking stick he felt kind of like Crutchy, and promptly felt bad for his earlier comments. He'd have to apologize when he saw him.

He was able to sell a few more papes along the way, and his spirits lifted just a little. He lit up a cigarette, his pack getting dangerously light. He breathed in the smoke and blew it out again steadily, the pounding of his chest finally subsiding. He laughed at the absurdity of it all, and at the terror he felt. By the time the cigarette had burned down to his fingertips, he had reached Tibby's. He opened the door and bumped into Racetrack.

"Oh, heya Skitts," he said, chewing on a cigar.

"Hey, Race." He went to move past him, but Racetrack was looking him up and down, alarmed. He sighed. "Headed over to Sheepshead?"

"Yeah, I was sellin' at the park for awhile. Now's I got enough money for the tracks. What the hell happened to you?"

"Whaddya mean, Race?" Skittery asked, feigning ignorance. He really didn't want to talk about what had just transpired.

"Ya got crap all over ya," Racetrack said, gesturing first to Skittery's pant-leg, marked with a black handprint. "Your pants is torn," he added, using his cigar as a pointer, "and there's blood on your walkin' stick."

This last detail surprised Skittery, and he felt the color leave his face when he realized it to be true. He tore off the loose piece of fabric from his pants and used it to wipe off the stick, quickly throwing it away. He realized Racetrack was staring at him, awaiting an explanation.

"I, uh, I fell down before, cut my knee," he reiterated, "and I guess when I touched it I got blood, y'know, here and there." He knew it was a lame response, but a reasonable one. Race squinted at him, his eyes boring into his face. Damned guy could always recognize a bluff.

"How'd ya fall down?" he asked skeptically.

"Tripped over a bunch of milk cans, watching a dame." Racetrack instantly forgot his doubt and doubled over laughing. Skittery rolled his eyes and scratched his head repeatedly, waiting for Race to compose himself. The itching had diminished earlier but now it had returned with a vengeance.

"Aw man, Skitts, you kill me…" Race panted. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sighed, lightly giving Skittery a slap on the face. After a moment he noticed the scratching. "Whattsa matter? Ya got lice or somethin'?"

Skittery frowned. Just what he needed. "Guess so," he said, causing the short Italian to step back.

"Remind me not to share a towel wit'cha," Race said. He spotted a carriage trekking down the street. "Gotta go, there's me ride. I'll see ya later – watch out for milk cans!" With that he crept, rat-like, behind the carriage, and disappeared from sight.

Skittery entered Tibby's, shelled out fifteen cents for a knockwurst, and sat down at an empty table, Race's voice ringing in his ears. Skittery knew with a certainty that he didn't have for the others that Racetrack would end up just fine in life. In a few years he'd be too old for selling papes, but soon enough he'd land a job at Sheepshead as a bookie or work in the stables. They liked him there, and even if they didn't, nobody could say no to Race. Things had a weird way of always working out for him, no matter what hand he was dealt. Some days, thinking about that made Skittery feel kind of proud to know him, and lucky to be his friend. But today Skittery swore that if Race ever smacked him again, he'd break those card-dealing fingers of his.

He munched on the knockwurst and took a swig of root beer, the same food he'd eaten for years. It was so familiar he could no longer taste it, but at least it was filling. Spending fifteen cents on lunch meant spending five for dinner, if that.

There was a throbbing in his leg, so he bent over to examine his knee. It was starting to scab over, but there was dirt in the wound. He dipped the tip of his napkin in the root beer – thinking the bubbles might eat away any germs – and pressed it against the cut.

He flinched. There was a searing pain, but it felt good to clean it. He finished up his meal, went to wash his hands, and left the restaurant.

It was always harder to sell during the afternoon, as many of the news-conscious citizens were at work. He decided to just head in the direction of Little Italy and see whose ears he could catch. He scratched his head a few more times, his hair getting greasier each time he handled it, and set off.

After several unsuccessful attempts at pushing the headline, a darkening began to settle. He could feel it in his stomach and behind the eyes - a dull throbbing in his head. As he walked, dust and dirt clouded around his feet. Nothing but squalor, everywhere. Shop after shop with windows that were nearly opaque with filth. Smudged faces and the tattered clothes of strangers. The grime of the city was getting to him; nothing seemed clean, unless it belonged to a rich person, and if it belonged to a rich person than it was polluted, too.

"Escaped prisoner livin' right under our noses!" he announced with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. A burly, mustachioed barber who had been sweeping the steps in front of his shop tapped Skittery on the shoulder.

"I'll take one of those," he said gruffly, handing him a penny. Skittery tipped his hat to him and gave him the paper. He was about to continue on his way when he noticed his shoe was untied and bent down.

The barber opened up the paper, his eyes skimming for the information he'd been sold. "Wait a minute, Alfred Dreyfus…?" Skittery heard the man say to himself. He knew. His eyes shot up from his laces, when suddenly the barber yanked Skittery up by the back of his shirt.

"Hey, I—"

"You're a _liar_!" he seethed, and raised his broom to strike him. "Ya rotten street rat, I want my money back—"

Skittery wrenched himself free, dropping a few of his papers in the process, and ran like mad for a block and a half. Once the shouts of the barber faded out of earshot, Skittery slowed to a walk, panting and grinding his teeth. This hadn't been the first time he'd forgotten to bolt after selling a fabricated headline, and he figured it wouldn't be the last.

He passed by a brick wall plastered with advertisements. He stopped and stared at one poster in particular, which seemed to be marketing chewing gum. It depicted a drawing of a sad man with a rain cloud over his head. The caption read: "Feeling glum? Have some gum!"

Skittery felt a tightening in his jaw, something that had developed recently and was causing his mouth to pop sometimes while he ate. He scowled and moved on. At one point he thought he saw Mush, and went out of his way to avoid him. He wasn't sure why.

Another time he heard the voices of the Delancey Brothers. He hadn't seen them since the strike ended, and had no desire to now. In a perverse way, Skittery almost liked the Delanceys. They were such lowlifes – they'd pick on women, children and cripples, for God's sake – that it was acceptable to hate them, even expected. So hate them he did, without guilt or remorse.

He was walking past a trashcan when a crying stopped him. It was a whimpering, like that of a small animal. He didn't have a good feeling about this. Everything in his body was telling him to ignore it and move on; pretend it was a cat with a broken leg or something. He stared at it resentfully.

Skittery laughed in spite of himself; it sounded strange and far away. Biting his lip, he looked around one last time and opened the lid. A little boy, curled up in the garbage, peered back up at him, eyes red and cheeks stained with tears.

* * *

_Author's Note: I just wanted to mention that if anyone sees any historical inaccuracies in my stories, for God's sake tell me! Any time I have a doubt whether or not something existed during the time period, or am unsure of the distance between certain New York districts, I try my best to research it, but even then I can make mistakes. I want my facts to be as straight as possible, so please let me know if you see something incorrect. Thanks!_

_**Total Havoc:** Sorry, but as you'll see the Alfred Dreyfus headline and the bum in the alleyway have no connection whatsoever. The headline was really an event in September 1899, but Alfred Dreyfus was a French military officer who was wrongly convicted of treason and sent to the Devil's Island prison located near French Guiana. So as neat of a plot twist as that would be – Dreyfus being the crazed loon who attacked Skittery – there's no way I could get away with that. ;)_

_**Special thanks to all those who have reviewed so far! You guys make my day.**_


	3. Papers Is All I Got

Skittery felt his heart drop. The child looked terrified out of his mind. Neither was sure what to do, so they both stared at each other. Skittery wished he could put the lid back and forget about the kid altogether.

He decided lifting him out of the trash was a better idea. The urchin clung to him and continued to sob. He appeared to be about five years old, and smelled like rotting food. Skittery awkwardly patted him on the back in an effort to soothe him. The child sniffled and sighed, dampening Skittery's shoulder with tears and snot and drool. Finally, the crying subsided.

"What's your name, kid?" he asked quietly.

"J-Joseph." His voice was barely above a whisper and sounded stuffy.

"Okay, Joseph," Skittery said, looking around desperately, "what's the matter?"

The kid shook his head and began to cry again. Skittery felt his innards squirm. He didn't ask for this. He didn't want to get involved. Why was life always doing this to him?

He put Joseph down on his feet and looked him square in the eye.

"Kid – _Joseph_ – wouldja stop, just stop crying? Damn it." He offered his sleeve to the boy and let him wipe his nose on it. "Now, is there anything I can do for ya?"

Joseph noticed the newspapers under Skittery's arm and pointed to them.

"Oh, ya wanna be a newsie, is that it? You're runnin' away and ya wanna be a newsie." The kid nodded, caught sight of something behind Skittery and hid behind the trashcan.

Skittery glanced back and saw a frail woman, a few years younger than himself, looking around anxiously. He rubbed his face with his hands, and did his best to keep his voice calm.

"Look, Joseph, not every kid off the street can become a newsie. It's a lotta work to be walkin' around all day. Ya gotta have tough feet and a loud voice, and you don't have neither. There's not enough room in the lodging houses, unless you'se can pay – dat's why you see little ones sleeping under their papes and curled up on heating grates at night. If you're lucky ya can find a building to sneak into, but those kids usually get caught and sent to the orphanage." He stared down at the child, who now looked more helpless than ever.

"So's that your sister?" Joseph nodded. "Ya maybe wanna go back to her?" He didn't react, so Skittery handed him his walking stick to carry and picked him up again.

They headed over to the girl. With some trouble, Skittery managed to remove his cap, his hair sticking up at all ends. "Uh, Miss? 'S he yours?" he asked.

She turned to him, and he felt a sinking in his stomach. She was even feebler up close. Her mousy-brown hair was scraggly, with strands of it falling out of the lop-sided bun she had attempted. She had a black eye that made her cheeks seem sunken into her face, and a dress that was too big for her slight physique. She had clearly grown up faster than her body could handle.

"Joseph," she murmured, and took the boy from his arms. Skittery grabbed the stick back, surprised that she could hold something even as small as a child; she looked like the weight would cause her to bend and crash to the ground. She whispered a few words into Joseph's ear, calmed him down and sent him back into the apartment building behind her. She turned her sad eyes on Skittery, who wondered if he was doing the right thing after all.

He had no idea what to say. "You two'll be okay?" was a pointless question, because he knew the answer; it was imprinted on her face in shades of black and blue. He swallowed a lump in his throat. He'd seen an uncountable number of women with shiners – not excluding his own mother - but it never got any easier to witness.

"Thank you," she said quietly, saving him from having to speak. He nodded weakly as she stepped closer to him and placed a delicate hand on his arm. He watched her long, thin fingers snake around his bicep, and for some reason felt like shivering. There was a burning beneath her touch, as if her fingerprints were branding themselves there, but his insides went cold. His eyes slowly followed up her arm to her face and his heart began to pound. She looked so damned miserable. He flushed with shame and tightened his grip around his walking stick. He didn't know what to do.

"Yeah," was all he said, and looked away. Her hand lingered on his arm a little longer before it dropped carelessly to her side. Skittery scratched his head and avoided her gaze until she turned and walked into the building.

Skittery could have had a sister.

He realized his heart was beating similarly to when he had encountered the Newspaper Man earlier. He felt nauseated, and squinted into the sunlight. All he wanted was for the day to end.

Again he decided to turn back. There was nothing awaiting him, only things he could return to. Besides, his feet were killing him.

A few streets down he heard shouts and the occasional ringing of a bell. He jogged until the sight of a boxing ring came into view. There was a mass of people around it, taking bets and egging on the fighters. Skittery took a seat on a barrel and watched for awhile.

He liked boxing matches. He liked them because they were free, first and foremost, but there was also something else about them. They made him feel a certain way, a way that he couldn't quite describe. Human was the closest word he could come up with; the fights made him feel human.

A hand plopped down on his shoulder. Skittery flinched, fully expecting to see the angry barber again, or the battered sister, and whirled around.

Blue eyes. Brown, curly hair. Freckles.

Momentary relief.

"Hey, Davey."

"Skittery!" David said, smiling. "Thought that was you. How are you doing?"

Skittery shrugged. People never asked that expecting a real answer anyway.

"What're you doing here? Selling?" David continued.

"Nah, just decided to catch a breeze, y'know?" Skittery got up, figuring David would want to talk. David always wanted to talk.

"Slow day today, huh?" David said as they left the area. "Jack says everybody's had trouble selling."

"Yeah, slow day, all right." Skittery struggled not to sigh audibly.

In the beginning, Skittery couldn't help but respect David, because he was smart and he easily took Jack down a peg or two. Even when Jack and David became a team, taking themselves seriously as crusade leaders, Skittery had to admire the guts it took to face Pulitzer. But after the strike, he soon realized that when David's father got his job back, David would have no desperate need to sell papes anymore – he would be doing it _for the love of the job._ Skittery himself would give anything to be able to quit hocking headlines and go to school, study something worthwhile. And here David was, throwing that opportunity away for the World. _The World._ It made him sick.

"So how's your dad, Davey?"

"Well, Dr. Weinberg – that's our family doctor, Dr. Weinberg – came over the other day to do some tests. His arm's just about healed now, he says. Another week or two and he can go back to the factory."

"Ya think they'll rehire him?"

David thought about this. "Well, if he can't get his old job back, he'll probably be able to get another one like it. He's a good worker, has plenty of experience."

"And I guess you'll be goin' back to school?" Skittery asked, glaring at David out of the corners of his eyes. David ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

"I don't know. That's what my folks want. And I promised Dad I would, but…" He trailed off, staring at the armful of papers he had left.

"But _what_?" Skittery said testily, and scratched his scalp.

"But, well, I like being a newsie. I like this new life, and you guys - my friends. I care about you guys, y'know? I care about what I do."

Skittery stopped walking. He couldn't believe that David was saying this to him. He couldn't believe the nerve.

David also stopped, and turned around to face Skittery. "Something wrong?"

Skittery stuck out his jaw and clasped his walking stick tightly, watching his knuckles turn white. He cleared his throat. _Remain calm._

"Y'know, Davey, I could've got an education," he said finally. David didn't say anything, so Skittery stepped closer to him. He spoke slowly, allowing each word to sink in. "I could've gone to school. I did, for a couple years, until I came home one day and found my old man dead in our livin' room."

David swallowed. Skittery ignored this.

"Because my old man died, and left us nothin', not a God-damned penny to our names, guess what I had to do? Get a fuckin' job. Get a job to help support my mom. Nine years old and I was a damned newsboy. Like Les, 'cept I didn't have an older brother to share the work." Skittery could feel the tightening in his jaw again. "Now, my mom left after a year o' this. She left so I wouldn't hafta worry about her no more. And I been a newsie since then, learning nothin' but how to hate the World. And I'll tell ya, there's not a day dat goes by I don't wish I could go back to school and make somethin' of myself."

He looked at David for another moment and turned away. "Nice talkin' to ya, Dave." With that, he strolled off, glancing back only once to see David staring at the ground, deep in thought. He looked shaken.

Skittery smiled to himself, though he felt no joy. Now he couldn't believe his own nerve; he didn't feel guilty about talking down to David - because he felt, in all fairness, the guy had it coming - but to _confide_ in him? To reveal even a shred of his personal history, and with _David_? His smile faded. He'd broken an oath he long ago swore with himself, and now it seemed possible that anything could happen. It was like something was building inside him, and he wasn't sure he could hold it back for much longer.

He wandered down a crowded street with a heavy conscience, these thoughts pressing down on his mind, and decided to give up selling papers for the day. He couldn't find the will to bother trying. It didn't matter anyway; since the strike ended, it had been worked out so that the newsies could get their money back from the distribution office for their unsold papes. He could make back enough money for the lodging house and a bite of food, and that was good enough for tonight.

He tore his gaze away from his shoes and saw something up ahead. A little girl with dimples, maybe four years old, waiting a few feet away from her mother who was buying fruit at a produce stand. The girl had on a daisy-white frock, and her light brown curls were shining in the sunlight. She looked like what Skittery imagined angels looked like.

Skittery liked little girls, but he didn't dare say that aloud. He was worried it would make him sound sick, or crazy, even though he didn't like them in a wrong way. It wasn't bad, his fondness for them – it was just affection for something so foreign to his life. He enjoyed watching them from afar, because they were so different from boys. Little girls were soft, and sweet, and pure. He liked girls until they grew up, when they learned enough to reject him.

This little girl looked back at him, and smiled. It was a wide grin for a stranger who held no potential threat, only friendship. It was the wide grin of a youth with no understanding of responsibility, misery, or everyday strife. It was a wide grin that made Skittery's heart rise and swell like bread dough, and he returned it gladly.

Suddenly, a man brusquely pushed past her, knocking her down in a dry puddle of mud. The man didn't even glance back or break his stride to see what he had done, only quickened his pace. The girl burst into tears, staring helplessly at her dirt-caked dress and her scraped hands and knees. Skittery watched in trepidation. The happy, perfect world around her had shattered, and all she could feel now was confusion and hurt.

Something was building inside of him, and then it broke.

* * *

_Author's Note: Oh, the angst. One or two (I'm thinking two) chapters to go. –hugs Skittery!Muse- The other day I thought I saw Michael Goorjian walking down the streets of White Plains, and my heart skipped a beat. Wasn't him, though. –pout- A girl can dream, can't she?_

_In response to **GeekOnDisplay** (great name, btw) – according to Wikipedia, chewing gum did exist. Some fun (read: useless) facts:_

_-In 1848 John B. Curtis developed and sold the first commercial chewing gum called The State of Maine Pure Spruce Gum._

_-William Semple filed the first patent on chewing gum (patent number 98,304) on December 28, 1869._

_Wikipedia, my old friend. Anyway, R&R, please! Reviews are the awesome._


	4. Walking Till We Fall

_Author's Note: I suggest you re-read – or at least skim over – the previous chapter, as it sort of builds up to this moment. Also, this chapter has some violence that, well, ain't too pretty – so be prepared for that. Not for the squeamish.

* * *

_

Skittery dropped his papes in the street and picked up his pace, soon breaking into a run. The area was swollen with people and the man was moving fast, but Skittery felt the day's tension – and all the tension of the days before – solidify itself, squirming and throbbing in the pit of his stomach, propelling him forward. He wasn't thinking of what he'd do when he caught up with the man, just that he _needed to catch up_.

He caught up.

_Crack._

Skittery brought his stick down on the man's back, knocking him forward. He grabbed the guy by his jacket and jerked him backward, pausing only to notice the man's shocked expression before driving his knee into his ribcage. A sharp _oof!_ was released as the man doubled over in pain. His hands fumbled for Skittery's neck and his body writhed for some semblance of control, but it did nothing as Skittery's fist with his face. Then again. And again. And again.

He held him by the collar of his shirt for better leverage and hit him in the jaw, the nose, the eyes – wherever his knuckles happened to land. The man started spitting up blood, and surrounding strangers were suggesting he stop, but he couldn't. Tears were welling up in Skittery's eyes, glossy and wet and sticking to his lashes, blinding him to all of it. He wasn't crying, but the sound of skin against skin was stirring up strange feelings in him, feelings he had only just witnessed - he felt human.

"Sonofabitch," he muttered with disdain, punctuating each blow. His knuckles were stinging and starting to split open; the warm blood that spilled over caused his fist to slip against the man's face on contact. He was losing feeling in his fingers, tendons tingling in pain, but he couldn't stop. His shoulder was aching unbearably, and the veins in his forearm were screaming from the impact. His nose dripped with snot, making it difficult to breathe, but he couldn't stop. Blood was leaking out of various facets of the man's face, and women were gasping with fright. The man lost consciousness and his body went limp, and suddenly Skittery could stop.

His first thought was that he had to find the girl and see if she was okay. He had to pick her up and wipe away the dirt and assure the mother that all had been taken care of and make the girl smile again, smile just for him. He had to find them first, but they had fled. He hoped he hadn't scared them.

There was murmuring all around him and shouts for the police. Skittery kept moving and kept moving, unsure of what exactly had just happened. He knew he'd just done something wrong, and faces were swirling around him in a blur of color, but all he could do was _keep moving_.

Minutes past like this until he neared a familiar building. He dragged his palm against the warm brick, feeling a hint of relief. He had made it to Duane Street. He couldn't believe it, but he'd made it. Or close to it, he wasn't quite sure. Things were looking funny. His pace slowed and the ground swelled and buckled beneath him. Everything seemed distorted and unnaturally close or far away, like tug of war with his surroundings, and somehow he didn't think he was winning. He wished he had his walking stick to hold onto.

He could feel himself stumbling, struggling to regain his balance, until it was like he'd suddenly entered a tunnel, the boundaries of his vision narrowing sharply inward. The ground came rushing up to meet him, and then black.

* * *

"I don't think I can carry him." 

"Yeah, but we can't just _leave_ 'im here—"

"I _know_ dat, but I really don't think I can carry him! He ain't exactly small, y'know. He ain't exactly Racetrack—"

"How long you think he's been here?"

"Dunno. Couple minutes, maybe?"

"He looks bad. Well, maybe if I grab his feet…? Wait, I think he's wakin' up—!"

Skittery's eyes rolled around in their sockets for what seemed like ages before he had the strength to open them. Things slid in and out of focus, and the setting sun beat down squarely on his face. His head hurt.

"Skittery?" one of the voices asked tentatively. A hand was raised to shield the light from his eyes, and he felt thankful. "Hey, Skitts, can ya hear me?"

"I, ugh…" He blinked several times. "I diddindoit…" was all he could manage.

A few nervous chuckles, some relieved muttering, and ever so slowly faces came into view. Familiar faces. He squinted at them. An almond-skinned boy and another with one eye stared back apprehensively.

"Jeez, Skitts, you okay?" Blink asked.

"I dunno… I, I—I need ta lie down." Blink and Mush shared a look.

"Ya are lying down, Skitts," Mush said. Skittery couldn't think of any way to respond to this, so he groaned and closed his eyes.

"Alright, let's get 'im inside," Blink said resolutely, and hoisted him up by his waist. With some difficulty, the two managed to prop him up and drag him inside the lodging house. Skittery's head flopped down uselessly. "Kloppman!" They paused, and Blink's brilliant blue eye surveyed the area. "Kloppman, we's got trouble!"

"Just a minute, just a minute…" The old man entered the room, drying his hands with a dirty dishtowel. He adjusted his glasses and scrutinized their cargo with concern. "What do we got here?"

"It's Skitts, Kloppman," Mush said softly. "We dunno what happened, but we found him out cold on the corner."

"I see, I see," Kloppman said after a moment of silence, though he didn't see at all. "Well, you two get 'im upstairs, lie 'im down, and I'll get some water…"

They did as he said, though it was no easy task. Skittery refused to cooperate and Mush had to continually remind him to move his limbs and take steps forward, one foot after the other. At one point they thought he muttered, "I don't take orders from no one," but when they looked at him he appeared to be unconscious still.

Seven minutes later they got upstairs and into the room. They set him down in the bed closest to them, his body landing with a soft _thump_ like a sack of grain. Kloppman brought some water in an old metal cup, tilted Skittery's head up, and forced him to drink. After a moment Skittery choked a little and pushed it away, shifting to his side. Blink picked up one of Skittery's hands and pointed out the numerous cuts and abrasions to Mush. Once more they exchanged looks, which Skittery noticed through half-closed eyes. He noticed but he didn't care.

And then there was black again.

* * *

Skittery's eyes fluttered open. His step back into consciousness was more natural now, like coming out of a dreamless sleep. The September heat caused the thin sheets to stick to him, but otherwise it was the most comfortable he'd been all day. He stared at the bunk above him, allowing his eyes to adjust to the strange shapes the coils appeared to be making, and then rolled over onto his side. 

"Well, hello there," said a voice beside him. Specs glanced up from the paper he was reading and smirked, though his eyebrows were ruffled in concern. "You awake finally?"

The room was dark, and the candle beside Specs was too blaring to look at. Skittery blinked several times and rubbed his temples. He noticed that his right hand was heavily bandaged with an old stained cloth, splotched with dried blood. He held out both hands to examine them.

"What the hell happened?" he muttered drowsily. His left hand was bruised and a little cut up, but nothing too out of the ordinary. The pain in the right, however, was overwhelming.

"I should be askin' you that," Specs said, folding up the newspaper and tossing it on his bunk.

Skittery remained silent. He noticed that Specs wasn't wearing his hat; locks of hair were falling in unkempt curls against his forehead, not unlike the ringlets of smoke that drifted lazily up from the candle's flame. He looked a little more tired then usual. The incessant itching returned to Skittery's head and he went back to scratch it, his scalp tender and scabbed.

"Ya always read the papes?"

"Every day," Specs said, slightly frustrated. "Some of the words I don't really get, but, well, y'know. Why ya scratchin' so much? Ya got lice or somethin'?" Skittery rolled his eyes. "Alright then. How ya feelin'?"

There was a grumbling in his stomach. "Hungry."

"Thought you'd say that. Here." And with that, Specs handed him a plate of pork and beans that seemed to have materialized out of thin air, but really he'd been keeping on the bedside table. "Sorry if it's cold, I wasn't sure when ya'd wake up."

Skittery ate ravenously, his mouth inches away from the dish and his spoon barely doing any work. Specs pushed his glasses up from the tip of his nose and continued to talk.

"All's I know is, Blink and Mush came and found ya passed out on the ground, a few buildings down. They took you inside and ya fell asleep right away." He paused, and looked at the dark night that spread outside the window. "I guess dat was about two hours ago. Your hands were all busted up, so Kloppman cleaned 'em and wrapped that one up with an old shirt. He said he'd let you pay for lodgin' tomorrow. That food's gonna cost ya six cents though." He ran his fingers through his hair as punctuation, sweeping it out of his face.

Skittery nodded, took a drink of water, and continued eating.

"Ya got any papes ya want me to take back? Getcha money back?"

Strange images took shape before him. Dropped papers in the dirt. Running. A man's jacket. Skittery winced at the throbbing in his head and put his plate down, finished. He felt sick, and tried to suppress any more dreamlike recollections that could attempt to emerge.

"Nope. Lost the rest of 'em."

"Sorry to hear dat."

"Yeah." They sat in an awkward silence, one party fully prepared to listen, the other completely unwilling to talk. Skittery vaguely took note of how golden but strained everything appeared in the dim lighting of the room. He glanced at Specs and saw the way his jaw looked darkly outlined, sharply defined in this light. The way Specs was sitting, his glasses were reflective enough to hide his eyes, and Skittery wondered if he was staring back at him.

"Where is everyone?" he asked quietly.

"Kloppman said they all should clear out for awhile, let ya sleep. Nobody knew what happened to ya, so."

"Yeah." He didn't want to elaborate any more than he had to at the moment, and it was making things uncomfortable. They sat in silence a few seconds more.

"So!" Specs said finally, clapping his hands on his knees. "You're lookin' better, and I think you could use a drink. Maybe help with that headache o' yours."

"Ya got whiskey on ya?" he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Nah. I was thinkin' O'Halloran's, if you're up to it."

Skittery looked up quickly in surprise. He couldn't remember a time in months that the two had gone out for drinks. The last thing he wanted to do, however, was move from the bed or go out in public, and he had a stabbing fear of being recognized by any witnesses from earlier. The self-pity he felt was staggering. But Specs stared back so expectantly, and so seriously, that he felt strangely obligated.

"Sounds good," Skittery said with uncertainty, eyebrows raised as if it was a question. "But I don't got money…"

"Eh, I figured as much. It's on me."

"Nah, Specs, I don't want ya to—"

"Hey," Specs said firmly, standing up. "This is as much for me as it is for you. Now swap ya shirt with somethin' clean, get ya shoes on, and let's go."

Without another word Skittery nodded, quickly attempted to smooth his rumpled hair, and got up to change.

* * *

_Author's Note: And the next chapter shall be the last. Will Skittery finally achieve some sort of peace? That remains to be seen (but c'mon, I'm not **that** sadistic). And this next bit is something I've been looking forward to writing since the story started. Yay!_

_Special thanks to **AnnieTheNewsElf** for reviewing every chapter so far:)_

_Also, BIG SHOUT-OUT to **GeekOnDisplay** for the super kind words and recognition in her awesome new Skittery fic, **Darkness** (go read it if ya haven't yet)!_


	5. Still, It's a Fine Life

The pub was thick with people. All around them, tired, callous workers poured their spirits into forgetting the week's labor and filled the air with cigar smoke. Red-faced men with bristling mustaches and loud, abrasive laughter sat playing poker at one corner of the room. Thin, frowning businessmen with dark circles beneath their eyes sat together on barstools, eyeing their surroundings wearily for the slightest glimpse of a female companion. The no-nonsense bartender endlessly dried the same glass mug, pretending to listen to the numerous drunken stories he was steadily barraged with; there was nothing he hadn't heard before.

Specs was shifting in his seat a lot. He would take a gulp of beer, a shadow of a grimace flashing across his face at the bitterness, and put the glass back down on the table, nodding at it as if it had just engaged him with an amusing tale. Then he'd glance behind his shoulder, rub his neck, knock on the table with the palms of his hands, and briefly catch Skittery's eyes before starting the whole process over again.

By all accounts, Skittery should have been the one who was nervous. He thought he'd seen several shifty-eyed looks thrown in his direction on the way to the bar, and was sure one or two men recognized him from the fight a few tables away. But Skittery wasn't nervous. He wasn't feeling anything particular at the moment.

What Skittery was doing was taking note of things. He watched Specs rub his thumb repeatedly along the glass handle of his mug, and saw that his white sleeves hung low and billowed around the knuckles, making him look like some sort of writer - a poet, maybe. He observed how lean Specs was in comparison to the others, wiry but strong, and how elastic his mouth appeared, wrapping around words with gusto. He noticed that his fuller bottom lip always made him look like he was pouting, and how his eyebrows would crawl together like caterpillars when he was confused or concerned about something - and right now he seemed to be feeling both.

He didn't know why he noticed these things about Specs.

"Anything wrong, Specs?" he finally asked, after clearing his throat. "Ya seem—"

"You want to tell me what happened today?" Specs fired back. Skittery shut his mouth. "Yeah, okay then."

This was not how Skittery had anticipated their night out. He thought Specs had extended the invitation to get him to loosen up, have a little fun – instead there was more tension than ever. His head still throbbed and his right arm hurt all over, from shoulder to fingertips. Skittery left his beer almost untouched and picked at the threadbare material covering his hand, momentarily wondering whom the shirt had once belonged to. It appeared to be child-sized.

Specs took another large sip, glanced around, and put his head in his hands. He muttered something that Skittery didn't catch. He leaned forward.

"What didja say?"

"_I'm sorry_," Specs repeated loudly, peering at him over the rims of his glasses. "For snapping at ya. I just…" He snatched his bowler hat off his head and tossed it on the table. "Damned stupid thing." Running his fingers through his hair, now damp with sweat, he let out a sharp breath and muttered, "I just had a really bad day, is all."

Skittery shot his eyes up in surprise.

"Ya had a bad day?" he reiterated, as if the meaning of the words was lost on him. Specs nodded, staring at his near-empty glass with an equally empty look. "Well, uh… what happened?"

Specs shrugged and avoided his friend's gaze. "Got called a kike."

"_What?_"

Specs blinked slowly. "I got called a kike…" he murmured again.

Skittery didn't know what to say - a feeling he was getting accustomed to. He scratched his head. "Do ya… do ya wanna tell me about it?"

A bitter smile flickered across Specs's lips, but he nonetheless complied. Sitting up a little straighter, he wrinkled his forehead and gathered his thoughts, gazing at a point a few inches from Skittery's face. Finally, gesturing with his hands, the story tumbled out of his mouth with dire need.

"I, uh. Let's see. I was sellin' papes with Dutchy over by City Hall; he took one corner and I took another. And this real pretty, real rich lady – I mean, she was a _lady_, with ribbons in her hair and everything – she steps out of the building I was next to, kinda waiting around. So I turns to her, and I take off my hat an' kinda bow at her, and I says, 'Excuse me, miss? Would you care for a paper?' Y'know, real polite-like."

"Sure, sure," Skittery said, trying to visualize all the details.

"I mean, I didn't even want to lie about the headline or nothin'. So I just looked at her, tryin' to be as gentleman-like as possible. And she gives me this nice, sweet smile – her teeth were real white and straight, too – and she hands me a whole _two bits._"

"A whole two bits?" Skittery echoed with a mixture of awe and skepticism.

"Well, she asked for most of it back, but told me to keep five cents," Specs explained. "Five cents! So I was strugglin', tryin' to hold my hat _and_ give her a pape _and_ count out the change I owed her, but I dropped a few papes and they landed on her shoes. Her shoes looked like they cost more than all my clothes put together, but she didn't seem to mind too much. I put my hat back on so I wouldn't hafta hold it no more, and bent down to pick up the papes—"

"Sorry to interrupt, but would you fellas care for another ale?" The two of them looked up at the buxom waitress standing before them, apron tied tightly around her chest and hands gripping two full glasses.

"Sure, I'll take one," Specs said, draining his old beer and gladly accepting the new. Skittery shook his head and she moved on, bitter lines etched deeply into her face. "Anyways… where was I?"

"Ya bent down—"

"Oh yeah," Specs said. He glanced around and seemed to become more aware of his surroundings again. He lowered his voice. "So I put my hat on just so's I can give her back the change and pick up the papes, right? Well, just so happens at that _exact time_ a big, snooty fella comes out of the building and sees me bent over, reachin' around the bottom of his wife's skirt."

"Oh, shit," Skittery muttered, eyes wide.

"Yeah, I know. So I grab the papes quickly and give her the change, and he steps up and starts shoving me." Specs nudged Skittery across the table once or twice in demonstration. "Says to me, 'How dare you' and 'Remove your hat in front of my wife' and things like dat—"

"What a jerk!"

"—And I don't know what to say, and she's grabbin' at him trying to quiet him down, and I _step on his foot_."

"Real hard?"

"Pretty hard, yeah. His shoes was polished, too. But I couldn't help it! He was the one—" Specs waved a hand dismissively. "Well, anyway, this really makes him mad, and he pushes me off extra hard, so's I almost fall down. I stumbled and he threw my papes at me, callin' me a 'filthy, street rat kike.' Says I better not show my 'knife-nose' around them again."

The enthusiasm he had maintained in telling the story faded quickly as the meaning of these words sunk in. He frowned and drank a good deal of beer as an ending to the account. Skittery sat back and sighed, wincing inwardly for his friend.

"Christ. I mean, that's… that's rough, Specs. Callin' you things like that. It ain't right."

"Yeah. It just—usually, what do I care what some rich bum calls me? Y'know? And Dutchy came over and treated me to lunch and everything… But somethin' like that, words like that, they stick with ya. And it—it just makes me think of me old life." His voice got quiet and his eyes softened a little. "Y'know, Skitts, I'm from Jewtown."

Skittery nodded. This he knew. Once, and only once, had the two shared their personal histories – or at least as much as they dared to reveal. Coincidentally, it had been over their first taste of alcohol, as ten-year-olds, before boundaries had been built and after their tongues had loosened. Skittery's mother had just recently departed and, in an effort to make him feel better, Specs stole a flask of whiskey from under an older newsie's pillow. The boys drank half the bottle, sputtering and coughing at the vile taste and the burning in their throats, as Specs regaled Skittery with stories of the famed Hebrew quarter.

And now, once again over drinks, Specs emptied his mind of memories.

"God, I'm so glad to be outta Jewtown. It's terrible there."

"It's terrible everywhere," Skittery pointed out.

"O' course. And things are hard here and everything… but there it was terrible like _all the time_. The adults all look like they're the walkin' dead. Just," Specs waved a hand in front of his face, "empty, y'know? Work themselves harder than anybody I ever seen. Crammed wall-to-wall in all the buildings. So's moving to the lodgin' house wasn't much of a change for me," he laughed weakly. Skittery cracked a sad smile. "I mean, not to say I was livin' _so_ bad. My mom had work, makin' clothes all day and night. And I went to school for awhile."

Skittery perked up a little. "Yeah, what was that like?"

"Lotsa holidays," Specs said, taking a long drink from his beer. The two chuckled.

"I went to school for awhile too," Skittery said, massaging his aching shoulder. "I liked it. Until I… well, until I had to leave." His voice drifted off and he stared at the table, thinking again of his dad lying on the floor. The tightening in his jaw returned.

Specs nodded, but didn't press it. Instead he raised a finger in the air, his eyes looking less focused than they had earlier, and said, "I do remember somethin' about school, actually. My teacher was really into bein' clean."

"What?" Skittery struggled to remember a time he'd ever been clean. "Why?"

"I dunno why. But every day, he would look at us sternly like this," Specs paused to frown and stare at Skittery over the rims of his glasses, "and he would ask us, 'What must I do to keep healthy?' And we would have to—have to answer…" He began to laugh, and Skittery grinned expectantly. Specs composed himself and continued in a falsetto, "'I must keep my skin clean, wear clean clothes, breathe pure air, and—and live in the sunlight!'"

The two laughed harder. Specs was doubled over, hands wrapped tightly around his beer, and Skittery smiled broadly, his tongue poking out between his teeth a little. Finally Specs sat up and wiped his eyes with his knuckles, panting and snickering.

After a moment the two sighed and quiet settled over the table. Skittery scratched his head. It felt strange to laugh, like the last time he'd done it was too far away to recall.

"Yeah…" Specs said out of nowhere. "That was school, up until—forth grade, I guess it was."

"Why did ya leave?"

A deep, sad smile overtook Specs's face. He seemed to concentrate on not meeting Skittery's eyes.

"Me dad."

Skittery's left hand involuntarily balled into a fist.

"You had a bum dad too, huh?" he managed through gritted teeth.

Spec's eyelids seemed to grow heavier as he nodded. "Firebug."

Skittery leaned in again. "What?"

"Firebug. Me dad was a firebug. It's a… it's like a…" He paused to drink some more beer, and stifle a belch. "He and a bunch of other guys would burn stuff. Like tenement buildings. They'd collect on the, uh, the insurance for the furniture afterwards."

"Pretty fuckin' dangerous…" Skittery muttered, immediately wishing he hadn't.

"You're right," Specs said, and looked up briefly before affixing his gaze back on the table. "You're right. And so was me mum, because he got busted one day after it got way outta hand. Whole building went up in flames, only it wasn't empty. Couple people died, and he went to jail."

He took his glasses off and tossed them on the table. Small, dark imprints were visible on the bridge of his nose. Skittery raised his eyebrows in surprise, more at Specs's change in appearance than what he'd said. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Specs without his glasses for more than a few seconds; he was known even to sleep with them on sometimes.

Skittery shook his head of these thoughts and felt bad for being so easily distracted.

"So, yeah, me mum went _nuts_. She lost it, y'know?" Specs let out a short, hoarse laugh. "Wouldn't let me go nowhere. After a week I couldn't take it no more. I was…" He rubbed his eyes with his hands and didn't stop. "I was really _scared_. And I ran—ran to Manhattan, ran to get outta there. Just needed to get outta Jewtown. And, well, y'know the rest already." The last bit was muffled as he buried his whole face in his palms. "I ain't never been back."

Skittery shifted in his seat uncomfortably. He thought he heard a faint, solitary sob, but it was over almost instantly. Now he found the will to drink.

He grabbed his beer glass and, with some trouble, downed half of it. He had to use his left hand, because the joints in his right were too swollen and stiff to bend around the handle. There was a pleasant burning in his chest as the liquid traveled down to his stomach.

Specs finally looked up again, his eyes bloodshot and his face tinged red. Skittery couldn't tell if it was the beer, the rubbing, the embarrassment, or all three, but he also found it didn't matter. They stared at each other and then they both drank some more.

"Alright," Skittery said finally, putting his glass down. "I'll tell ya what happened today."

Specs sat up and pushed his beer away, attempting to give his friend his full attention, despite being too drunk to fully do so. The door of the bar opened and two new voices were added to the surrounding conversations, voices that should have been familiar, but neither of them noticed as the details of Skittery's day flooded off his chest and into Specs's open ears.

There was the bad headline, the lice, the filth. There was the scuffle with the Newspaper Man and the angry barber, and the resulting injuries. There was the poor boy, and his battered older sister, looking at him with a harrowing need and despair that he couldn't shake from his mind. There was David. There was the lost feeling that sometimes overcame him in the middle of a crowd, seizing his heart with the fear that nothing would ever improve. There were minor annoyances that would build, and build, and build. And finally, there was the little girl.

"The little girl?" Specs repeated with confusion. Skittery nodded once.

"This jerk knocked over this little girl and hurt her. I don't know why, but I—I just snapped. I guess it was all the other stuff that made me do it, but I really beat the shit outta him. I don't even know if he's okay or not. I mean, I know he's not okay, and he deserved it, the fucker. But still, I hope he ain't dead."

"Holy shit," Specs managed.

"And then I…" Skittery swallowed his pride. "I _fainted._" He paused. "I'm not as good at tellin' stories as you, I guess."

Specs ignored this. "And all for a—little girl?"

"I, uh—well, I know it sounds… it sounds funny, when I say it out loud." Skittery knitted his eyebrows in frustration. "But I, I really like little girls." Specs didn't respond right away, so Skittery felt the need to elaborate.

"See, I coulda had a sister. Me mother… she got pregnant, when I was a young kid, and she always said it was gonna be a girl."

"How could she know that?"

"She couldn't. I don't know why she said that, but she wanted it so bad. And I wanted it too. I wanted a little sister." Skittery sniffled, a gesture that embarrassed him. "But it went rotten. Do ya know what I mean? Me little sis… she never came out."

"Yeah," Specs said quietly. "I know what ya mean."

His gaze connected with Specs's (exposed, dark, serious) eyes and Skittery felt sick.

"I just wonder sometimes what my life woulda been like, if I had a sister to take care of. Little girls… they're so sweet, and nice, and pure, right? Like angels, y'know? I just like lookin' at 'em, playin' happily in the streets and not carin' about none of the bad things in life." He unconsciously ran his fingers along the tattered shirt around his hand, picturing the image. "And I saw this real special little girl today, after all this other bad stuff happened, and she smiled this pretty smile at me. And I felt, for the first time all day, _so good_, like hope—"

"Whatsa matter, Skitts? Can't find a date your own age?"

Skittery and Specs froze.

Jack laughed at Racetrack's joke and grabbed a chair to join them, beer in hand.

"Hey you two," the Cowboy said, sitting down. "Whatcha talkin' about? Little girls?" They didn't respond. Racetrack shrugged and leaned against the wall, shuffling a worn deck of cards.

"They's awfully quiet." He squinted at Specs. "Hey, Specs, where's your specs?"

"Oh, uh, my eyes were hurting…" Specs mumbled, waving vaguely at the glasses on the table.

Jack ignored this and looked closely at Skittery. He took his bandaged hand and examined it. "What do we got here? 'S all banged up. What happened—"

Skittery jerked his hand away, but said nothing. Jack narrowed his eyes.

"What's your problem?"

You'remyproblemYou'remyproblemYou'remyproblemYou're— 

"Skittery's having a bad day," Specs said. Jack and Racetrack turned to him with interest, Skittery with alarm.

"So what else is new?" Race shot back. Jack half-smiled and half-frowned in disapproval at the comment.

"Don't mind Race, fellas, he's just sore 'cause he lost big at the tracks today."

"So what else is new?" Skittery echoed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Race scowled.

"Least I'm not _always_ glum, ya big—"

"Fellas!" Jack interrupted, standing between the two of them. Skittery didn't care about his argument with Race, because the little bastard had a snide joke for everything, but he glared at Jack with all the contempt he could muster.

The Cowboy. The infamous Cowboy. Since Jack Kelly had been revealed as the deceptive and deluded Francis Sullivan, most of the newsies had been given a reason to love him even more. They'd been given a reason to pity him, or better relate to him, or better trust him since they'd overcome something together. The guy had confronted Pulitzer and won; the guy was a hero. Skittery, on the other hand, had simply been given another reason to dislike him. "Liar" was added to an always-growing list of qualities that included "smug", "cocky", "womanizer", and "self-appointed, self-important leader", though not necessarily in those words or that order.

Skittery wasn't dumb, and he wasn't ungrateful. He knew that Jack had done a lot for the newsboys and, therefore, done a lot for him. He even considered himself Jack's friend, in the respect that he would fight on his side if and when the time came. He'd collected one or two scars for Jack's sake, and he'd done it more than willingly. But he also wasn't a pushover, and he was painfully aware with every time he looked at the Cowboy that Jack had gotten away with everything. That, in essence, was Skittery's biggest problem with him: Jack got away with everything. And that damned, self-satisfied grin of his was a constant reminder.

"So what the hell happened to our friend today, Specs?" Jack asked, his voice suggesting he would not repeat the question again. "What's this about a bad day?"

Specs blinked several times, calmly regarding each person, and said shortly, "Skittery beat up a guy for mouthing off."

Evidently this was not expected, as two sets of faces fell uneasy. Specs drank some more beer and stared at the ceiling with satisfaction.

"Beat 'im up somethin' awful, too," he added.

Skittery came close to laughing, but chose to smirk at Race instead. His diminutive cohort smiled shakily, coughed, and gave his cards a quick shuffle. His dark eyes scanned the bar momentarily.

"Wonder if those fellas over there'd be interested in a game or…" He trailed off as he crossed to the other side of the room, avoiding the three pairs of eyes that watched him go. Skittery's smirk grew wider. He turned to look at Jack.

"I'm not sure I like that, Skitts," Jack said slowly.

"I'm not sure I give a damn," Skittery said in an equally even tone. He ran his fingers over his bandaged hand and stared at Jack with a feeling of authority. For the first time all day—a day in which he'd repeatedly been under someone else's control, or lost control of himself—he felt power.

Whether Jack recognized this in his voice or his eyes, Skittery couldn't be sure, but he knew the message had been received and a choice had been made.

"Alright, fellas, I get it," Jack said, pushing his chair away from the table and standing up. "I know when I'm not wanted," he added with mock suffering. "Specs, Skitts, have a good one. See youse two later." And with that, he sauntered over to where Racetrack had joined a game of poker, never casting a glance behind him.

The two remaining boys grinned at each other. Skittery noticed with relief that concentrating on his friend's problems had eased his own anger, and replaced it with something much better.

There were no words, so Skittery casually picked up Specs's glasses and examined them. One of the lenses had a crack in the corner, and both were badly scratched. The frames were bent out of shape and devoid of color, except for a few small blotches of black paint. They were wiry – wiry like Specs. Skittery put them on, and blinked a few times.

The difference was startling. All around him, things became clear and more distinct. Edges and details were sharply defined from their surroundings; colors made more brilliant, faces more visible. Skittery realized he'd never seen clearly before this.

He looked over to where Racetrack sat smoking a cigar, and to his surprise found he could make out the red pattern on the backs of the cards. He could see the wisps of smoke curling above their heads, and the swirls of knotted wood on the walls.

After a moment, he began feeling nauseous. He was seeing things a little too clearly, and it made his eyes strain and ache. He took them off, but continued handling them.

"Guess my eyesight ain't so great," he said lamely. Specs snorted.

"Ya think that's bad? Those things don't even help me that much anymore." Skittery raised his eyebrows.

"Your eyes must be worse than I thought." He looked at them once more and then handed them to Specs.

"Yeah, I've had 'em since I left home. A good pair of glasses costs a lot. More than I got, that's for sure." He put them on again. "Been saving up, though. A couple pennies a week since I been here. Somehow I had the smarts to realize they weren't gonna last forever. I'm thinkin' another year and I'll have enough for a stronger pair. Can't wait to see things again."

"I'll bet. Wearin' those just now was amazing."

"Really makes a difference, eh? Well, if ya want, when I get a new pair I can give ya these old ones. I won't need 'em no more."

Skittery considered this, but shook his head. "Nah, I dunno. It'd take a lot of getting used to…" He glanced back at the poker game, and realized with disappointment that he had to squint just to discern the curls of smoke. "Well, let's see how bad it gets by next year, huh?"

Specs smirked. "I told Dutchy he should save too, but he don't seem too concerned. His prescription isn't as bad as mine anyway."

"Prescription." Skittery repeated the word with interest.

"Yeah. This pair of glasses is the last thing I ever got from me dad. He wore real thick glasses; made his eyes look twice as big." Specs raised his eyebrows high into his forehead and crossed his eyes.

Skittery chuckled bitterly. "Least he was good for somethin', right?"

"I guess." Specs suddenly became serious. "Y'know, Skitts… I remember what ya told me about _your_ old man."

Skittery frowned and concentrated on his beer. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I wouldn't forget somethin' like that. And the things he did…" Specs knew it wasn't necessary to continue. His point had been made.

"I know ya wouldn't, Specs."

"What about your mom, though?" Skittery looked up quickly. Specs shrugged nervously before he continued. "Ya hardly ever talk about her."

A moment of silence. Then—

"Nah. Me ma… that's just for me. Okay?"

"I understand, Skitts."

Their eyes connected. For a brief instant, Skittery wanted to touch Specs's face. He didn't know what it was about it, but he wanted to feel it against his injured hand; feel the look he was being given. It was a look of understanding and brotherhood. He felt his hand twitch, but the impulse disappeared immediately.

"I know ya do, Specs," he said finally. "I know ya do."

Specs tore his eyes away and fished around for his pocket watch. "'S getting late. We should head back." He put some change on the table and grabbed his hat.

Skittery nodded and drained his glass. He was dimly aware that his headache had subsided, and the beer eased some of the pain in his arm, making it feel warm and strangely detached. The two stood up and left the bar.

It was dark, and the temperature had cooled somewhat. Skittery drew in a deep breath of fresh air – as fresh as city air could get, at any rate – and sighed.

They made the short trek back to Duane Street in silence, Specs fiddling with his hat, Skittery noting things about their surroundings and picking out certain faraway sounds in the distance. Being aware of these parts of New York made it feel more like home somehow.

"Hey," he said, turning to Specs as they were about to enter the lodging house. "Tell me somethin'. If ya had a bad day, where'd ya get the money to pay for our drinks?"

Specs paused. Then a wide, proud grin spread across his face. "I got to keep the lady's two bits."

Skittery laughed and slapped him on the back, resisting the urge to hug Specs with all his might.

* * *

The lodging house was back to its usual dull roar. Kids here and there snored lightly in their sleep, but most of the boys were up and about, playing cards, chasing after marbles before they slipped through the floor cracks. Snipeshooter was showing Boots a dime store novel he'd stolen; the two boys' faces lit up at the sight of colorful cowboys and Indians at war. Dutchy and Bumlets were washing their faces and brushing their teeth before bed, Snitch was scrubbing the stubborn blackness from his feet while shooting glances at Itey. Blink was telling Mush a series of jokes that had the former boy doubled over in laughter, but had Crutchy, Snoddy and Pie Eater rolling their eyes. Specs lay in his bunk calmly, finishing up the day's news. Swifty entered the room not long after Jack and Race, smirking secretively.

Skittery stood in front of the bathroom mirror, warily studying his reflection. There were a few scratches on his face and chin that made him reconsider shaving for the night. He ran a hand along his jaw, the light brown stubble feeling coarse against his skin.

An image of his father, heavily bearded and looking not unlike Skittery himself, changed his mind. He quickly reached for the blade and lather.

Afterwards he walked back into the center of commotion, surveying the room with a blank expression. There seemed to be a silent arrangement that he was to be left alone for the night, and few of them raised their eyes. Skittery wasn't sure if he was appreciative or resentful of this.

A small pair of arms wrapped around his waist. He looked down in surprise, and saw the coffee-colored complexion of Tumbler staring back at him, wide-eyed and hopeful.

"Are ya okay now, Skitts?" he asked quietly. Skittery felt a warm, rising sensation in his chest. The kid would never know how much that moment meant to him.

"Yeah, kid, I'm okay. It's okay." A smile from each. He patted Tumbler's head and pulled him into a brief hug. "Now off to bed with ya's."

The little one pouted but obeyed. With nothing else to do, Skittery waltzed over to the open window and stepped outside on the fire escape. The city stretched out before him in the dark, reduced to twinkling lights from windows and wisps of smoke from chimney-stacks.

He wondered what tomorrow had in store for him. Maybe he would be recognized on the street and have the bulls to answer to. Maybe he'd crossed a line with Jack tonight and there would be heightened tension between them from now on. Maybe his lice would still bug the hell out of him. Maybe he'd avoid Specs for awhile to avoid any more confusing feelings – then again, maybe not. Skittery supposed that was the price one paid when living moment to moment.

Intending to light a cigarette, he struck a match against the brick wall, but paused halfway through the motion. He watched the flame fizzle and fade into darkness with a sadness he couldn't quite explain. He glanced at the cigarette again and put it back in his pocket.

Instead he inhaled the cool, fresh breath of wind that was temporarily relieving him of the muggy weight of the September air. Soon it would be winter. Not for awhile, but soon enough.

With winter would come the biting cold on fingertips wrapped tightly around the day's papes, and numbed feet receiving little protection from their worn boots. With winter would come the blanket of snow that cleansed the city of its filth, and oxygen that was sharp to breathe – a rejuvenating shock to the system. With winter would come frosty ground and whipping winds, causing the newsboys to huddle together around their cigarettes during the day and share nips of whiskey at night. With winter would come Christmas, the boys' meager but warm celebration and an excited exchange of small, cheap gifts; gifts that had been paid for through no small, cheap sacrifice. With winter would come the promise of spring.

Winter's waiting and Skittery couldn't be happier.

* * *

_Author's Note: And as Skittery's day comes to its inevitable end, so does the story. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. This chapter was exhausting to write as I was unsure about many aspects, but ultimately it was worth the effort. It's considerably longer (about three times longer, actually) than the other chapters, but I just didn't have the heart to break it up. _

_For some reason my Specs!muse is Jewish, in case some were surprised at that. Many thanks to How the Other Half Lives for its articles on "The Street Arab" and "Jewtown" which I referenced heavily, as well as the always useful Wikipedia. Extra special thanks to the kind and helpful reviews and the words of encouragement that feed my fire – you guys are the best!_

_Oh, one last thing – although I'm surely not suggesting that there was any slash between Specs and Skittery (for who could interpret any part of that scene in such a way? -wink-), I will say that I totally have the perfect name for the pairing: **Spittery.** Mwhahaha, how great is that? I love it, and I hope other writers will explore their relationship – preferably with more steaminess than I dared. And don't tell me there's no basis for it: the next time you watch the movie, notice how many times the two are side by side. See KONY, TWWK, and STD (plus the reprise - wait, STD? Ewww) for just a few examples. YEP, 'at's what I thought._

_So this is for all you readers – may you have a better day than Skittery (though none of you have Specs to curl up to, unfortunately)!_


End file.
